Withering Heights - A Wuthering Heights Parody
by Patchy Meow
Summary: Halfcliff was a cold man, he quoted; "Revenge is best served cold." He lived in Withering Heights, on a hill-top of the windswept moors. It was on a cold, snowy, winter's night a tenant of Halfcliff, Mr Locktight, paid a visit to Withering Heights. He was


**Prologue**

H**e smashed his head upon the tree trunk; and lifted his eyes and howled, not like a man, but a savage beast being goaded. There was blood on the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained. He had repeated this act during the night. I thought at first he was a werewolf, I knew then he was a head banger. All this because his fire had grown cold. He may have been a little distraught that his one true love had passed away, but I was not sure of anything with Halfcliff.**

**CHAPTER I**

1801 - I have just returned from a visit to my landlord. We live in a beautiful part of England and more importantly, well away from others. A haven for miserable sods like me and Mr Halfcliff. We have carved up the desolation between us. Even the sheep shun our society. And whilst on the subject of Mr Halfcliff, what a fellow he is! He could not imagine how I warmed to him — not. What a suspicious look upon his face when I rode up to his home on this cold and windy evening. His hands withdrew further into his trouser pockets as I announced my name.

"Mr Halfcliff," I said

He replied with a nod of his head and a belch.

Undeterred by the apparent rudeness of his greeting I continued, "I am Mr. Locktight, your new tenant, sir. I hope I did not cause you too much trouble in my perseverance of occupying Thrushitch Grange. I heard —

"Thrushitch Grange is my own sir," he interrupted, wincing, as he passed wind. "I would never allow anyone to inconvenience me."

I believed him.

"Walk in," he commanded.

He uttered the 'Walk in' with clenched teeth and with the attitude of 'Go to hell.'

He leaned against the gate and fixed his eyes and an object in the distance and belched again, this time louder. I felt interested in a man who seemed even more reserved that myself. Yet were not embarrassed at his loud bodily functions.

Even when my horse pushed against the barrier of the gate, he did not put out his hand to untie it. He turned away and preceded me up the driveway in silence. As we entered the courtyard he called, "Joseph take Mr Locktight's nag, and bring us up some wine."

I thought to myself, "Is that all the domestic help he has?" No wonder the grass was overgrown; the cattle were perhaps the only hedge cutters in use. Joseph is old; actually, he is ancient. He looked like Methuselah. "The Lord help us! " he muttered in displeasure, while taking my horse from me. I was inclined to agree with him. Joseph looked sour, as if he had a bad case of indigestion.

Withering Heights is the name of Mr Halfcliff's dwelling, 'withering' being an adjective to describe something withered and dying. It suited the look of the property from its neglected look. The grass was the only living object that appeared to have any life. The trees at the edge of the house, were gnarled and withered. The howling wind came in gusts, just like Mr Halfcliff I thought, gnarled, withered and excessively windy.

On reaching the main door threshold, I paused to look at the grotesque carvings. There were crumbling griffins and naughty little boys wearing peculiar expressions, and doing what I can only describe as 'watering the lawn.' I saw the year1500 and the name Hairton Buyshaw carved into a stone, underneath were etched the words: H + C forever. I would have requested a history from the surly owner of Withering Heights, but I did not wish to aggravate his already impatient, bordering on rude, and temperament.

We stepped straight into the living room; they called it 'the house.' This part of the house included the parlour and kitchen. Although I saw no kitchen or signs of cooking in that part of the house. The room held a huge fireplace with a roaring fire. Fit for Hell's kitchen and the devil himself I thought.

At one end of the room, under an arch, stood an oak dresser, laden with pewter dishes, silver jug and tankards. It was also laden with food, which proved the inhabitants of the abode were human, even though they to me they looked like the undead. Under the dresser lay a bitch, a pointer, surrounded by puppies. Hung above the chimney were various guns and pistols. I made a mental note of Mr Halfcliff's arsenal, and thought it wise to pay my rent on time. The floor was of smooth, white stone with the occasional red/brown stain. Yes, I think indeed it would be very wise not to go into any rent arrears!

The house was furnished like many farmhouses amongst these parts, along with their country squires. Mr Halfcliff's looks were not consistent with that of a country squire. He had the look of a gypsy, but he dressed and seeked to act like a gentleman. I believe that he fell a little short in the gentlemanly manners department. I observed he often pushed his hands into his pockets and jingled something in there .I had no idea what that something might be, to be honest I thought it best not to ponder on that thought! He could be a handsome man, but he looked rather morose and there is something of the night about him. Some people may say he is a proud man, instinct tells me his reserve had more to do with not showing his feelings. Here is a man who loves to hate or hates to love. He is filled with gas not mirth. To summarise my first impressions of his character; antisocial.

I myself am antisocial, more so when it comes to the opposite sex. Thankfully, I am not hindered by flatulence, although I have unconsciously perfected the art of scaring off any would be lovers. Recently on a trip to Brighton I met a fascinating goddess like creature, her name was Fanny. She had her own hair, a full set of teeth and no halitosis or body odour. I fell head over heels in love with her, but I did not declare it. She reciprocated my feelings. What did I do! I drove her away with my indifference and reluctance to use personal hygiene products. I even gained the reputation of 'Heartless Stinker.' I did not stay around for long after the mud slinging was started by her 6ft 2 mother.

My thoughts now returned to Withering Heights; I took a seat near the hearth and attempted to touch the dog I saw previously. She had left her pups and stood near to me. She snarled at my touched.

"Leave the dog alone," growled Mr Halfcliff, "She is not kept as a pet."

Then striding to a side door he shouted, "Joseph!"

Joseph could be heard singing in the cellar down below. When he did not appear his master when down to him, cursing under his breath and muttering, "He better not have been at the wine vat again."

I was left along with the ill tempered bitch and a couple of shaggy sheep dogs that now joined her. They watched my every move; where was a marrow bone when you needed one. Maybe they thought I was the marrow bone; I was no dogs' dinner. I was anxious not to make contact with their sharp teeth. I sat still and decided to amuse myself with making faces at my audience. The female pointer suddenly became furious at my teasing. She leapt up at me in a rage. I shoved her back and pushed the table between us. The commotion awoke half a dozen more four legged fiends. Like stinking breath hounds of hell, they snapped around me. I picked up a poker and tried to fight them off like an incompetent ninja. I could smell my fear and quickly grabbed a nearby pot and was thankful I wore dark brown trousers.

I shouted for help. Finally I heard the men climbing the cellar steps. They made no haste and ascended at their customary leisurely pace. Happily, a busty kitchen maid came to my aide, she tucked up her gown and bared her arms ready for a fight. She rushed into the midst of the affray, wielding a cast iron frying pan. Using her weapon and tongue to great effect that by the time her master had entered the room, the scene was now the calm.

"What the devil is the matter with you?" he asked, giving me a withering look. His inhospitality knows no bounds I thought to myself.

"The devil indeed, your animals are possessed. You might as well leave a stranger with a pack of wolves." I replied.

"The dogs do not touch anyone who has not touched anything, in the house." he remarked, then he picked up the displaced table and placed a bottled upon it. "Here, have some wine," he snapped.

"No thank you." I replied

"You have not been bitten have you?"

"If I had been bitten Mr Halfcliff, you would know about it, believe me."

"Come take some wine Mr Locktight, you are flustered. Guests are so rare in this house that I and my dogs do not know how to treat them." He then eyed the pot in my hand.

"It was fortunate I did not need use of this," I said as I handed the pot back to him. "Please excuse the lingering smell, I rarely experience flatulence, but in this case it is justified."

Mr Halfcliff stared at me, a mere hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. He produced two glasses and poured the wine. "To your health sir."

I raised my glass and returned the toast. I sat for a while in conversation. My landlord seemed to be in good spirits. I found him to be intelligent in the topics of conversation we touched upon; woman, gambling, wine and personal hygiene products. I began to feel more relax and I volunteered another visit to him the next day. This was received by a wall of silence. I was astonished at how much more unsociable he was than me. He could give me lessons!

During our conversation there was a question that peaked my curiosity.

"Mr Halfcliff perhaps I could prevail upon you to tell me your Christian name."

He paused for a moment

" I have no Christian name, my name is Halfcliff."

I was taken aback a little, and wondered how one would address a man with only one name. And so I asked, "When you sign your name on documentation you must sign it Halfcliff Halfcliff ?"

He shook his head and replied, "Not at all I was born with no family name. Halfcliff is my name and this is the only name I use." He continued " Is your interrogation finished Mr Locktight? Perhaps it would serve you better to stay put in **your** affairs, instead of enquiring after mine."

He raised his eyebrows as he said this. I opened my mouth to protest but after I saw the menacing look on his face I thought it best not to proceed. I would seek my enquires from another source. There was sure to be a servant or local gossip would be willing to answer my queries. The Daily Tattletale newspaper finds its stories in this fashion. When I one day return to London I will busy myself with starting my own newspaper. Indeed I have a name, The National Enquirer.


End file.
